PART 3
My mother’s name was Eleanor Bell.
At least, that was the name I had grown up with.
She had supposedly died in a car accident when I was six years old.
My father had shown me a photograph of a cemetery.
He had taken me to a funeral.
There had been flowers.
There had been adults whispering.
There had been a black dress hanging in my closet for months afterward because I couldn’t understand why everyone expected me to stop asking when my mother was coming home.
And then, when I was old enough to understand death, my father told me the truth as gently as he could.
“She isn’t coming back, Mara.”
I believed him.
For twenty-two years, I believed him.
Until tonight.
I looked at the photograph again.
The woman standing on the beach was unmistakably my mother.
Older, perhaps.
But unmistakable.
The same dark hair.
The same narrow face.
The tiny scar above her left eyebrow.
Even the little silver necklace she had worn every day when I was a child.
My mother.
Alive.
And apparently raising a seven-year-old girl.
My stomach twisted.
“Wren,” I said slowly, “where did you get this picture?”
“Mommy keeps it.”
“Does she have other pictures?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“At home.”
“Where is home?”
Wren looked at Ms. Dorsey.
Then at me.
“She said not to tell people.”
My heart began pounding.
“Why?”
“She said people might come looking for us.”
Ms. Dorsey exchanged a worried glance with me.
“Wren,” she said gently, “your mother is missing. The police need to know where you live.”
Wren’s eyes filled with tears.
“She told me never to tell anyone unless something happened.”
My breathing stopped.
“What did she say would happen?”
Wren looked down at her hands.
“She said if she didn’t come back before the rain stopped, I had to wait for Mara.”
I felt a chill move across my arms.
“What?”
“She said Mara would know what to do.”
I stared at her.
“How would your mother know me?”
Wren didn’t answer.
Instead, she reached inside the pocket of her yellow raincoat.
She pulled out a small folded piece of paper.
“I was supposed to give you this.”
My fingers trembled as I took it.
The paper was old.
Not old enough to have been sitting there for years, but old enough that it had been folded and unfolded many times.
On the outside, written in handwriting I recognized immediately, were four words.
For Mara. If necessary.
My heart stopped.
I knew that handwriting.
I had seen it on birthday cards.
On notes left beside my breakfast.
On the grocery lists my mother used to make before she died.
I unfolded the paper.
There was only one sentence.
If Wren ever finds you, don’t trust Daniel.
I stared at the name.
Daniel.
My father’s name.
I looked up so quickly that the chair beneath me scraped the floor.
“Where did she get this?”
Wren’s face had gone pale.
“Mommy gave it to me.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Did she say why?”
“She said something bad might happen.”
Ms. Dorsey stood.
“I think we should wait for the police before—”
“No.”
The word came out sharper than I intended.
I stood too.
“Call them. But don’t let anyone take Wren anywhere until I understand what’s happening.”
Ms. Dorsey looked startled.
“She isn’t your daughter.”
“I know.”
The words hurt more than they should have.
“I know she’s not.”
Wren suddenly reached across the desk and grabbed my hand.
Her fingers were tiny.
Cold.
Shaking.
“Please don’t leave me.”
I looked down at her.
Something inside me broke.
I squeezed her hand.
“I won’t.”
At that exact moment, my phone rang.
Dad.
I stared at the screen.
My father rarely called me.
And he had never called me after six in the evening unless something was wrong.
I answered.
“Hello?”
For several seconds, there was only silence.
Then his voice came through.
“Mara.”
His tone was strange.
Almost frightened.
“Where are you?”
I looked at Wren.
“At Alder Creek Elementary.”
Another silence.
“What are you doing there?”
I frowned.
“How do you know I’m here?”
He didn’t answer.
“Dad?”
His breathing changed.
Then he said something that made the room seem to tilt around me.
“Listen to me carefully. Get away from that girl.”
I stood frozen.
“What?”
“Do not take her home.”
“Why?”
“Mara, I mean it.”
His voice cracked.
“Whatever they told you, whatever that child says, you cannot trust her.”
I looked at Wren.
She was staring at me.
Her eyes were full of fear.
“Dad,” I said slowly, “who is Wren Ellis?”
He didn’t answer.
“Dad?”
Then he whispered:
“She should never have found you.”
The call ended.
I stared at my phone.
Ms. Dorsey was watching me.
“What did he say?”
I couldn’t speak.
Wren tugged gently at my sleeve.
“Was that your daddy?”
“Yes.”
She lowered her eyes.
“Does he know Mommy?”
I crouched beside her.
“I don’t know.”
Wren looked toward the office window.
Then she whispered:
“He knows her.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Mommy was scared of him.”
A knock sounded at the office door.
Everyone turned.
Two police officers stood outside.
The first officer introduced herself as Detective Lena Ortiz.
She was in her forties, calm, composed, and carried the exhausted expression of someone who had already had a long night.
“We received the missing-person report for Celia Ellis,” she said. “Is this Wren?”
“Yes,” Ms. Dorsey said.
Detective Ortiz stepped inside.
Her eyes moved from Wren to me.
“And you’re Mara Bell?”
“Yes.”
“Wren listed you as an emergency contact?”
“No.”
“She doesn’t know me.”
Detective Ortiz frowned.
“Then why did she give the school your information?”
I handed her the note.
She read it.
Then her expression changed.
“Where did you get this?”
“Wren’s mother gave it to her.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
Detective Ortiz looked at Wren.
“Wren, can you tell me where your mother is?”
Wren shook her head.
“Do you know where she went?”
Another shake.
“Did anyone hurt her?”
Wren’s eyes filled with tears.
“I don’t know.”
Detective Ortiz crouched.
“Did someone take her?”
Wren nodded.
My heart dropped.
“Who?”
Wren stared at the floor.
“I don’t know his name.”
“What did he look like?”
She hesitated.
“Like Mara’s daddy.”
Nobody spoke.
Detective Ortiz slowly stood.
“Your father?”
I nodded.
“Daniel Bell?”
“Yes.”
“Does he know your mother?”
“I don’t know.”
But even as I said it, I knew that wasn’t true.
Because my father had reacted as though he knew exactly what I had found.
Detective Ortiz asked me to step into the hallway.
She lowered her voice.
“Ms. Bell, I need to ask you something.”
“Okay.”
“Has your father ever mentioned a woman named Celia Ellis?”
“No.”
“Has he ever mentioned a child named Wren?”
“No.”
“Has he ever told you anything about your mother’s death?”
I stared at her.
“My mother died when I was six.”
“According to whom?”
“My father.”
Detective Ortiz held my gaze.
“Do you have a death certificate?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever seen it?”
I opened my mouth.
Then closed it.
I had never seen it.
I had only seen the funeral.
The cemetery.
The headstone.
My father’s grief.
Twenty-two years of memories suddenly felt strangely fragile.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying we may have a much bigger situation than a missing parent.”
She looked toward the office.
“Celia Ellis disappeared sometime today. Your name was deliberately given to her daughter. Your father apparently knew you were at this school before you told him where you were. And a seven-year-old child says the person she fears looks like your father.”
My mouth went dry.
“What should I do?”
“For tonight, don’t go home.”
The words hit me hard.
“My home?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“We’re going to send an officer there.”
“To look for what?”
“We don’t know yet.”
Detective Ortiz glanced at Wren.
“And you shouldn’t take the child anywhere without telling us.”
“I won’t.”
I turned toward the office.
Wren was still sitting in the chair.
She was holding her paper star.
But now I noticed something I hadn’t noticed before.
There was writing on the back.
I walked over.
“Wren, may I see that?”
She handed it to me.
I turned the star over.
There were six words written in pencil.
The house where Mara was born.
I stared at them.
“What’s that?”
Wren looked at me.
“Mommy said you would understand.”
I felt my pulse pounding.
“I don’t.”
She tilted her head.
“She said you would.”
Then she said something that made my blood run cold.
“It’s where she left you.”
My fingers went numb.
“Who?”
“Your mommy.”
I looked at Detective Ortiz.
“What house?”
Wren reached into her backpack.
She pulled out a small brass key.
Then she placed it in my palm.
On the key was a faded blue tag.
And on that tag was an address.
An address I recognized immediately.
Because it was the address of the house my father had sold when I was six.
The house where I had supposedly lived with my mother.
The house where she supposedly died.
I looked at Detective Ortiz.
“I thought that house was demolished.”
Wren shook her head.
“No.”
She leaned closer.
“Mommy took me there last week.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“Why?”
Wren looked at me with the strange seriousness only a frightened child could have.
“She said there was something in the basement.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
She paused.
“Mommy said if anything happened to her, you had to find it before Grandpa Daniel did.”
The office door suddenly opened.
An officer stepped inside.
“Detective Ortiz.”
“What?”
“We just got confirmation.”
“About Celia?”
The officer shook his head.
“No.”
He looked directly at me.
“About Daniel Bell.”
My stomach tightened.
“What about my father?”
The officer hesitated.
“His house is empty.”
I frowned.
“So?”
“He hasn’t been home tonight.”
Detective Ortiz looked at me.
“His car is gone.”
Then the officer added quietly:
“And according to the neighbor, he left about twenty minutes ago.”
I looked at the clock.
It was 7:31 p.m.
My father had called me less than an hour ago.
He had known where I was.
And now he was gone.
Detective Ortiz’s expression hardened.
“Ms. Bell, we’re going to that old house.”
I looked down at the brass key in my hand.
For twenty-two years, I had believed the worst thing that ever happened to me was losing my mother.
Now I was beginning to understand something much more frightening.
Maybe I hadn’t lost her.
Maybe someone had made sure I believed I did.
